


Adapt

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor proposes alterations.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 72





	Adapt

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Hank used to _love_ basketball. He still sort of does, in that numb, empty sort of way where he _likes_ it but feels like he can’t really _love_ anything anymore. He should be enjoying the game more than he is. The Gears are playing and killing it. His eyes should be glued to the screen. 

Instead, he keeps staring off at the kitchen, where Connor’s fussily flittering about raw vegetables. Hank hates vegetables. He’s probably not going to eat them. It’s so _weird_ having someone actually _cook_ for him again, and worse because it’s _Connor._ It puts them just that one step closer to any other human with a plastic housekeeper. That’s not what Connor’s supposed to be to him. 

But Connor bitches at him when he orders fast food, and this is the only other alternative. _Hank’s_ sure not going to cook something properly. So instead he watches Connor sauté carrots and broccoli and a bunch of other things Hank would never buy on his own. 

Maybe sometimes his gaze strays to _Connor_ instead of the work Connor’s doing, but that can’t be helped. Connor’s usual grey jacket is hung over a chair at the dining table, his white button-up still crisp and wrinkle-free, his black tie still securely in place. Maybe Hank keeps thinking about loosening that tie, pulling it away, popping a few buttons open. Maybe sometimes his eyes wander down Connor’s sculpted back to the round cheeks of his taut ass, his dark pants too tight across them. It’s not Hank’s fault. He tells himself Connor’s _designed_ to be eye-catching, and Hank’s just a washed up wreck of a human weak to base temptation. 

Sumo plods into the room and flops down onto the rug. That distracts Hank for maybe five seconds before he’s staring at Connor’s ass again. 

Connor glances over, and Hank quickly pretends he’s paying attention to the game. The announcers are drone loudly on, but Hank hasn’t heard a word they said. Thank God for PVR. He’ll have to watch it again later when Connor’s out of sight, albeit never out of mind. 

Connor wanders over with the water purifier he bought that Hank didn’t ask for. Connor tops up the glass on the coffee table, reminding Hank, “You should drink more water.”

Hank grunts noncommittally. He knows. He doesn’t care. 

Connor straightens up, and Hank’s looking at him again—the prim way he holds the pitcher and the strange depth of his brown eyes. It’s eerie, how _real_ he is. Sometimes Hank wants to believe he’s completely autonomous, and other times, Hank thinks it’d be so much easier if Connor really were just a machine. 

Connor, “You know, my looks can be modified if you truly find them that displeasing.”

Hank actually startles. “What?” 

“My physical appearance can be easily altered to anything you prefer. As could my voice—”

Hank cuts him off with an affronted, “No. _Fuck_ no.”

“It wouldn’t cost—”

“Connor, _no._ ” He can’t believe he even has to say that. 

Connor frowns. He looks down at Hank like _Hank’s_ the one being stupid. Connor quietly says, “I would like to be attractive to you, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s mouth works silently. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Maybe he’s blushing, which sucks, because he hates when Connor gets under his skin. It takes him a moment to manage a disgruntled: “Just get back in the kitchen, Connor.”

“This is important.”

Hank exhales. Of course Connor has to be difficult. He has to be the most difficult android in existence, including deviants. Hank surrenders and tries to explain, “Look, I like you just fine how you are, okay?”

Connor’s frown only deepens. “That isn’t what you said before.”

“What, when we first met? That was forever ago.” Connor doesn’t look convinced. Hank searches for the least incriminating words possible. “You’ve... grown on me. “

“Despite my ‘goofy’ looks and voice?”

Hank sighs. It just couldn’t be _easy._ He sucks in a long breath and gives away the last of his dignity, admitting, “Connor, you’re cute, alright? I’m perfectly satisfied with you like this.”

Finally, Connor smiles. It’s soft and warm, as though the little shit didn’t already know that Hank’s completely into him. It takes everything Hank has not to snatch the vulnerable complement back. Connor murmurs, “Oh. Thank you.” Hank has so many regrets.

He wishes Connor were one of them. Connor leans down, slipping one gentle hand beneath his chin, fingertips stroking fondly back through his beard. Connor’s lips brush over Hank’s, every bit as soft and tantalizing as a human’s. Maybe more. When Connor pulls back, Hank could swear there’s _love_ in his eyes. 

But that’s ridiculous. Hank leans around him and snatches up the water, downing the glass just for something to do that isn’t stare into an android’s eyes. Connor wanders back to the kitchen, firmly installed in Hank’s life where he belongs.


End file.
